


Agent Venom

by sarjren (sajere1)



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Gen, Origin Story, basically assumes that all the marvel movies exist in one universe, but my writing was shit so i changed it, essentially its the venom movie i want but put into words instead of a screen, includes headcanon cast and credits at the end and all that, mentions of the marvel cinematic universe, mentions of xmen and mutants, originally this was a fic called perpendicular parking, runs parallel to most of tasm2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sajere1/pseuds/sarjren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flash’s tests come back, for the most part, normal. He has a mild concussion and a cracked rib, both of which are expected since a 6’ tall supervillain had fallen on him from a five story building. He has a couple bruises on his arms that he explains away as products of the fall. He got some of that weird black gunk in his eyes, which. Ew.</p><p>And of course, he currently has an alien symbiote running through his blood. But at least his priorities are in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flashback

**Author's Note:**

> FLASH THOMPSON is portrayed by CHRIS ZYLKA.  
> EDDIE BROCK is portrayed by TYLER HOECHLIN.  
> JESSIE THOMPSON is portrayed by JOHNNY SEQUOYAH.  
> MARK RAXTON is portrayed by DEV PATEL.  
> All actors/actresses from The Amazing Spider-Man, including Peter Parker, Gwen Stacy, and Sally Avril, reprise their roles.

The glass shatters beneath his weight.

He lands face down on a stained office carpet, the smell of coffee beans and printer ink pervading his senses as he desperately scrambles to stand again. A nearby man has abandoned his computer and is instead cowering beneath his desk, staring in awe at the human-sized hole Spider-Man left in his window. Gritting his teeth, the masked man rolls his shoulder, managing a harsh breath as something cracks back into place. “Sorry for the distraction, sir,” he manages with a polite salute before webbing his way out, swinging from one office building to the next as he searches the sky.

“You can run, but you can’t hide!” cackles two voices at once – or one voice, really, but with two different states of mind, a single man with two souls to hide.

“Not technically running,” Spider-Man shouts at thin air, confident that the villain can hear him. “Anyway, _I’m_ going after _you_.”

For a few long moments, the only sound is the wind whipping past Spider-Man’s ears. Beneath his mask, he rolls his eyes. “Friggin’ idiot,” he mutters under his breath, skidding onto an especially low rooftop, stumbling to a stop dead center of the mutilated concrete.

He can’t sense the villain landing behind him, but he can hear it, his human senses more useful than his spider for once; he whirls around and slings a web. But his enemy has spidey senses too – a remnant of an instinct from when it’d taken over his suit, from when Spider-Man had thought it was there to help, when he’d been _stupid, stupid_ – and it manages to heave itself out of the way, rolling over the wire and barreling straight into Spider-Man himself. They wrestle for a few moments, the enemy’s fists clasped in Spider-Man’s desperate grasp as he works to shove the villain away from him.

The man – if it can still be considered that – is even more gruesome up close than he’d been far away; his eyes have gone dead white and bulge awkwardly out of his skull, every piece of skin lathered over with a crusty black glue, closer to an adhesive than a fabric. His mouth is ringed with jagged shark teeth, and emerging from the center of the gaping hole is a tongue, slimy, at least five times the size it should be. The awkward pink of its gums stick out in a permanently curved smile, and on its chest is another memento from its time with its last vessel: a burst of white goo in the shape of a spider.

Finally, Spider-Man manages to shove the larger man off of him, jumping over a well-placed kick and grabbing the man by his upper arm, taking advantage of the sudden lack of balance to throw him across the roof. The symbiote just barely manages to catch itself on the edge of the building before it falls off, stumbling back only to be met with a foot to its back as Spider-Man returns full throttle. Desperately, the man twists to reach his enemy; Spider-Man uses the opportunity to turn him around completely and shove him, back-first, off the building.

Spider-Man can hear the collision this time, too – a crack that feels like it could break his skull in half. He winces, taking hold of his bad leg, rubbing soothing circles around the bullet hole that has yet to fully heal and grabbing the railing to keep his balance.

“Holy crap, is that kid okay?” he hears someone shout from below him.

For a moment, he tenses – they can’t be talking about him, for all they know he could be 43 and just happen to sound especially young and good-looking – but then his curiosity gets the better of him and he peeks over the railing, angling his gaze downwards.

The symbiote lies splattered across the ground, some stray drops seeping into cracks between the sidewalk, the white goo he knows made up the spider symbol dripping down the side of some unfortunate street vendor’s watermelon. In the middle of the mess is a tall man, muscled, dark-haired, with a beard and a peaceful expression, his arm bent at an angle that cannot be comfortable. A small crowd has gathered.

But the crowd isn’t for the man.

Spider-Man stares down. The sinking feeling in his gut tells him that he isn’t seeing something, something has gone wrong and he has to fix it, immediately.

A man – the one who’d shouted earlier – reaches out and tenderly brushes some goo from a pale face, and Spider-Man knows, suddenly, what’s gone wrong.

Because caught beneath the man he just pushed off a five story building – the person who walked by at precisely the wrong time, who caught the brunt of the villain’s fall and went down with him, who was the crack Spider-Man heard on the sidewalk – is an unconscious Flash Thompson.

+x+

A week before his fall from grace (and, more literally, from the rooftop of Earl’s Parking Garage), Eddie Brock smiles into Barbara Walter’s microphone.

“It was nothing, really,” the man cajoles softly, muscles harshly defined beneath his undershirt and running shorts, eyes sharp even against the grey city background. He’s an attractive man – all chiseled jaw and scruffy half-beard, with a frozen stare that seems to halt even the traffic. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Catching a serial killer is hardly nothing, Mr. Brock,” Barbara Walters insists, smile freeze dried and perfected for popular consumption. “You’ve saved lives by publishing the story of the confessor. The city is truly grateful.”

“Oh, I’m just the same as anyone else,” Eddie Brock reassures, ducking his head towards the camera in a way perfectly calculated to garner sympathy. “Just doing my American duty.”

“What a jerk,” Flash Thompson snorts at the grainy picture on his TV screen. The piece of popcorn he lobs at Eddie’s picture goes too far to the right and bounces back at the child sitting next to him, and he ignores her squeal in favor of shoving another handful into his mouth, licking off the grease that drips down his fingers. “I can’t believe you’re interested in this crap. Shouldn’t you be watching Blue’s Clues or something?”

The small girl’s face goes pale white in defiance. “Blue’s Clues is for little kids, Flash,” she hisses under her breath. Her feet swing against the couch, thumping repetitively, jolting her so hard that her hair – long, blonde, cascading – becomes a complete disarray, shadowing her dark eyes completely. “If I’m gonna be president, Mom says I gotta know what’s goin’ on in the world.”

Flash manages of grunt of disbelief in the back of his throat. “Didn’t you want to be a lawyer last week? What’s up with the sudden change?”

“Plenty o’ lawyers are girls,” she dismisses easily, waving her hand towards his face without letting her eyes stray from Eddie Brock, who has now delved into an emotional monologue. “But there’s never been a girl president. So I need to be a president more than I need to be a lawyer, ‘cause there’s gotta be somebody who does it first, or no one’s ever gonna do it.”

Flash shakes his head and turns back towards the TV. “You’ll change your mind.”

“Will not!”

He rolls his eyes and settles deeper into the plaid couch cushions, delving into the paper bag next to him for the last pieces of popcorn and a few stray unpopped kernels at the bottom.

More than anything, Flash Thompson looks like someone took Captain America, shaved his head, and shoved him through a trash compactor. No matter what he eats or how often he exercises, his body is always made of pale sticks, arranged meticulously to ensure all the angles jut out as awkwardly as possible. His knuckles are perpetually bruised. His fingers blister so often they already have callouses. Sprawled across the god-awful couch his mother bought at a garage sale for $20 (according to the price tag that no one ever remembers to remove), he looks more like a train wreck than he does a teenage boy. 

“This is horrible,” he complains after another few seconds, finally summoning the energy to shove himself onto his feet and walk away, careful to keep his expensive shoes from touching anything that could stain their pure white. “I can’t believe you.”

“If you hate it that much, you could always do something productive,” his little sister calls over her shoulder, feet still swinging as she absorbs a particularly pink advertisement for facial cream. “Didn’t Mom tell you to get the mail earlier?”

“No,” Flash says, scratching the back of his ear.

She doesn’t miss the gesture. “Yeah, she did. It’ll take, like, two seconds.”

“Aw, Jessie,” he whines. Jessie purposefully keeps her eyes locked on the screen. “You just don’t want to do it yourself.”

“Ace detective skills, Holmes,” she hums, ignoring his petulant whine and allowing a fond smile only when she hears the door slam.

The walk down the apartment stairs is always awkward. Every day all year, Flash has walked multiple round trips on six flights of stairs to the sound of Benny promising to call someone to fix the elevator as soon as he can. It’s been months. Three mechanics live in the building. The guy’s just purposely being a douchebag at this point.

The clock ticks 4:30 behind him as he sidles up to the mail table – apartment number 632, the metal box at the top of the second to last column. Sending up a prayer of thanks for his growth spurt in freshman year, he lets his keychain click against his fingernails as he twists the rusted key in its lock, left hand poised to catch the pile of magazines and manila just before it crashes to the carpet.

He’s almost back to the stairs when he hears someone shout his name.

“Flash!” she repeats, and he turns to face her completely this time. She’s gorgeous – hair and eyes the precise same shade of brown, makeup carefully immaculate, blouse shaded purposely to bring out the clear line of her collarbone.

“Sally,” he greets, tucking his pile of mail between his elbow and waist, offering her a one-armed hug that she accepts with a squeal. “Thought you were going to Mexico with Jason for the summer?”

“I was,” she agrees, a light laugh bubbling from her stomach. Flash smiles crookedly. “Then I got into a car wreck, and now Mom’s being a bitch.”

Flash’s smile falls in an instant. “Are you okay?” he demands, eyebrows knitting together as he lets his arm drop from where it’s wrapped around her waist. His eyes dart up and down her body critically, narrowing at the lack of visible damage.

“Oh my god, not you too!” She rolls her eyes, gently shoving his shoulder. “I’m fine, I just got a minor concussion. You’re all paranoid as hell. Anyway, staying here means I can go to that gymnastics competition in July I was gonna miss. You remember that?”

“I thought you were quitting gymnastics.” He finally lets his gaze soften and makes for the stairwell, pushing the door open with his back and casually holding it open for her with his foot, waiting until she makes it to the steps before letting it swing shut. “You know, end of high school, new start and all.”

“That’s _after_ summer, Flash.” She rolls her eyes, already halfway to the second floor while he makes his way up the first couple of steps. “Anyway, I’m a winner at heart. I’m gonna get that gold if it kills me.”

Allowing an ungainly snort, he follows her path. “Yeah, and what’s Jason got to say about it?”

Her eyebrows knit as she purses her lips. “Jason doesn’t control me, Flash,” she snaps, finally coming to a stop with her hand on the railing, giving him a moment to catch up. “We’re dating, not codependent.”

“Really? Couldn’t tell.”

She shoves him with her shoulder; the feel of silk against flannel is familiar and he smiles, shoving right back. “He’s still going to Mexico, so it doesn’t matter,” she tells him, face pleasantly blank once more as her muscles go lax. “Anyway, he’d be fine with it. He loves my flexibility.”

Flash wrinkles his nose. “ _Ew._ TMI.”

She laughs and skips across the next few steps, and he smiles, following her up.

+x+

“Did we get anything in the mail?” Jessie calls as he shoves the door shut with his heel, Sally’s chatter still ringing in his ears.

“Haven’t looked at it yet,” he manages when he can think again, dropping the pile on the table. He falls against the counter, letting his weight rest on the jagged tile edges as he rubs his eyes, breath coming long and constricted. Reaching out, he casually thumbs through the stack of envelopes and spam, tossing a few bills to the side for Mom to deal with later. _The Daily Bugle_ has a side story on the front page about Spider-Man getting a new suit in black – totally not his style – and he’s picking it up for a closer look when his eyes land on the letter beneath it.

_United States Army_ , the return address reads.

He sets the newspaper to the side. His adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, a slick vertical slide on his neck. He plays with the stamp for a moment before thumbing open the envelope, pulling the folded pages hidden inside out just far enough for him to read the title.

**ENLISTMENT/REENLISTMENT DOCUMENT. ARMED FORCES OF THE UNITED STATES.**

“Flash?” At the sound of Jessie padding into the room, he slams the paper back into its manila cage, clumsily shoving it into his back pocket and leaning back against the counter again. She must’ve taken her shoes off when he was getting the mail, because now he can clearly see her dark Transformers socks. “Did we get anything or not?”

“No.” The lie comes easy. He barely even feels guilty. “Just some bills and spam. _Daily Bugle_ has an article on Spidey, though, if you want to read it.”

“The one about the new suit?” She yawns, trudging across the room to tug the fridge door open, squinting at the space where food should be. “Miles showed it to me this morning.”

His eyebrows almost reach his hairline. “Miles?”

She goes absolutely still. “Uh,” she finally manages, face pale and quickly draining of any leftover color. “Yeah.”

He grunts low in his throat. She winces.

“He’s a friend of mine.” Though she chews her lip until it’s raw, her chin juts out and her eyes gleam of defiance. “He’s new. Just moved from across the city – he’s from Manhattan.”

“Right.” The next question will decide everything. “And what does… _Miles_ …think about the new Spider-Man outfit?”

“Uh.” She blinks at him, eyelashes dusting the edges of her cheeks. “He thinks the black is cool. Says the new spider looks tacky, though.”

Well, that settles it. “If he ever looks at you again I’m gonna shoot him.”

She has the gall to roll her eyes at him before rummaging through the fridge, finally pulling out a can of blue raspberry soda and popping the lid. “That stuff is disgusting,” Flash points out. She doesn’t even acknowledge him as she trudges back out the door. “Don’t forget to be in bed by 9:00!” he shouts at her back.

“Thanks, Mom,” she snarks back, closing the door with an audible bang.

He knows she wants him to stop reminding her about her ridiculous bedtime. He does it every night. It annoys the shit out of her. But he has to. Because Dad gets home at 10:00. Because if she’s not in bed before then, who knows what she’ll see.

Because Flash and his father go to bed at 11:00.

He glances at the empty liquor bottle on the counter and, without realizing it, smudges his fingers on the makeup that covers his black eye.

+x+

“Watch out for that tree!” someone yells at a figure above Flash’s head, and he doesn’t even bother to duck as the masked crusader swings over him. Spider-Man ditched the black suit, Flash notes with appreciation. Good. It isn’t his color.

Spider-Man also seems to be pursuing a green man in a purple jumpsuit, but, well. Just another day in NYC.

Flash watches calmly, grocery bag hanging from the crook of his elbow. Spider-Man makes quick work of the bellowing man, spinning a web around his arms and torso to wrap him in on himself before coming to a stand in front of where the villain now hangs from a lamppost. “Sin-Eater,” he notes, voice calm and dangerous. “I thought Eddie Brock caught you.”

“Got the wrong guy,” Sin-Eater rasps, grin maniacal. Up close, Flash could see that the green isn’t actually skin but fabric mask and gloves, hiding the identity behind them – similar to Spider-Man in a way that makes Flash feel sick. “Come on, Spidey, you wouldn’t hurt a regular human, wouldja?”

Flash can almost _hear_ Spider-Man rolling his eyes. “No, but the police would,” the vigilante asserts, whipping the mask off the man’s face – _Stanley Carter_ , he notes in a moment of heart-stopping horror, the detective his dad had been working with that very morning – and promptly throwing himself to the building across the street, hands sticking casually to the brick as he climbs up, bad leg twitching ever so slightly.

Flash feels a little too much like a fanboy for noticing that.

His stomach churns as he glances back at Carter, who’s shouting threats at Spider-Man’s retreating back. He lets the bag drop from his elbow to the tips of his fingers, the sounds of the city dead around him as he catches eyes with the detective who’s still writhing beneath his bonds as some harried-looking woman dials 911 next to him.

Slowly, keeping eye contact, Carter smiles.

Flash sprints down the nearest alley and stays there until he hears the police sirens.

+x+

Flash wants to throw up. Even the stress to get into Empire State University back in spring hadn’t been this bad (though to be fair, he knew from the moment he’d sent the application that he wouldn’t be going, so maybe that isn’t as bad as he makes it out to be). He can constantly feel Carter’s eyes on the back of his neck, can feel his father, can feel knuckles made of brass and sallow skin and the disapproving eyes of his mother pointed towards the carpet so she doesn’t have to watch.

So Flash does what he always does when he’s feeling jittery.

He gets into a fight.

The kid’s name is Mark something – Braxton, maybe – and he seeks out Flash, not the other way around. “Thompson,” he greets, clipped and hollow. The kid looks Indian, with dark skin and black hair that frizzes straight up and an accent that could be anywhere except the U.S., but the ripped denim he’s adorned himself with and the hostility in his crossed arms all scream ‘native New Yorker.’ Before Flash can make a sarcastic quip, Mark grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him into an alley way, backing him up against the wall with flaring nostrils and a dark stare.

“Wow, dude, I’m flattered,” Flash mocks at the hand Mark has splayed against the wall next to him.

To his credit, Mark doesn’t even acknowledge the interruption in his train of thought. “Listen, wise guy,” he snarls, voice rough and dark and everything horrible in the world, “next time you want to shut a bar down, do it on a night when my band isn’t playing a gig, capiche?”

“What are you – “ Flash’s voice stutters and then drops off completely.

It had been about two nights ago, maybe three. Midnight. Dad still hadn’t been home, so he’d gone out looking. Dad had a broken beer bottle to fight with.

The bar had shut down for the night soon after.

“Alright, Braxton,” Flash begins.

“Raxton.”

He pauses to consider that. “Whatever.” Good decision. “Just, listen – I don’t care about your shitty band, okay? Nobody cares. There’s no way you guys are gonna last more than a couple of months.” He brushes the kid off like he’s a fly and straightens up, glowering at the other kid’s eyes. (For some reason, he expected Raxton to be shorter, but in actuality the kid’s just the tiniest bit taller than him – an inch at most. The thought makes him irrationally angry.) “I guarantee I’ve been to a hell of a lot more bars than you have, so I think I know a _little_ more about they work, and I'm positive I'm not the guy you're looking for. Go fuck up the manager, not me.” He sidesteps the kid, purposely bumping shoulders with him as he strides outside of the alley. “Find a real job,” he tosses over his shoulder as he walks out into the street, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Get back here, Thompson!” he hears the kid shout at him, but he keeps walking forward, and then – 

_Spider-Man returned to old suit Eddie Brock lost job after serial killer scandal Who is Venom We are Venom I am Venom_ – 

There’s a sickening crunch as his back cracks against the ground.

Distantly, he realizes that the weight above him is Eddie Brock. Spread around him like a sickening halo is black and white goo that he can’t name off the top of his head, though some of it seems to be forming pictures – spiders, he thinks, but that might be some sort of concussion talking.

Someone shouts for the police.

Mark Raxton is frozen above his head.

And in the midst of the chaos, no one notices the black symbiote mixing with the blood on his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long story short i love flash thompson like a lot and im rlly scared the venom movie isnt gonna be good plus ive been wanting to write this for like 3 years so. yeah. essentially here have a venom movie  
> i have the whole thing planned through already, including the post-credits scene. there are just a few things that remain undecided (like do i want valkyrie or not because that could be a great lead-in to an avengers/spiderman crossover fr srs). however, i am ALWAYS open to constructive criticism, about the story or just my writing on a whole.  
> if you want to talk to me in any way, whether its to ask questions or concrit or w/ever, i would prefer if you would do it on my writing blog, sarjren.tumblr.com, because i dont get any notifications or anything for comments on ao3. feel free to leave them here, of course, but the speed with which ill get back to you will probs be v slow.


	2. Flashlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HARRISON THOMPSON is portrayed by MARK HARMON.  
> ROSIE THOMPSON is portrayed by ANNA GUNN.  
> MYSTERIOUS WOMAN is portrayed by BRITTANY SNOW.

Sally makes it to the hospital exactly 3.4 hours after Flash got hit by a flying journalist.

Jessie’s already there, hunched in a straight-backed waiting chair next to a blonde woman with sharp features and a stony expression. “Flash,” Sally manages as she skids to a stop in the doorway, clutching the stitches in her stomach as she gasps for breath. In retrospect, that three-block sprint was probably a bad idea. “Is he – “

“He’s fine,” Jessie interrupts, ignoring how the woman hisses in her ear as she jumps up and darts over to Sally, coming to a breathless stop in front of the teen. “He’s fine,” she repeats, like she’s tasting it for the first time. “Concussion and a fractured rib, that’s it. They’re just re-checking him right now. We’ll get to see him in the next hour.”

Sally’s whole form collapses in on itself; she falls into a cushioned seat with an empty laugh. “Thank God,” she breathes, and Jessie sits next to her, ignoring her mother’s irritated grunting across the room.

The sterilized silence lasts for a minute or two, a shout from the void rather than to it. Breath caught, Sally leans forward, hand on the arm rest, and whispers, “What happened, exactly?”

Jessie glances up at her; her gaze only holds for a moment before she looks away, face burning. She blows out a long breath. Then she looks back up.

“Spiderman,” she says, and the silence falls heavy once more.

+x+

flash wakes up in a hospital room if he were a moth he wouldn’t know where to go everything is so bright he reaches out to touch a light bulb and the world falls

flash says a doctor

Flash Thompson hello you have a minor concussion

that’s him he’s Flash hey doc over here

“Are you alright” says the doctor “No” says Flash nothing’s alright right now

His jaw hangs open as his brain starts up again, his mind’s coming back to him, part of him wants to feel most of him wants to go back to sleep

Oh god his chest hurts. Why does his head hurt so much.

Something is running through his blood. What is it, doc? What’s he got in his blood?

He thinks clearly now, working through the words in his mind before they can spill out from his jaw. His brain works. Over him stands a concerned-looking German man, the recipient of his drugged up ramblings.

In the corner of the room – over the doctor’s shoulder – an invisible woman watches and waits.

+x+

“He seems to be a bit…out of it,” the doctor says in lieu of an explanation.

Sally makes a vague clicking noise from the back of her throat that earns her a look of amusement from Jessie. “What do you mean, out of it?” she demands.

The doctor winces. “We think he had an allergic reaction to some of the medicine we gave him,” he finally comes out and says, shuffling some papers on the nearby table with fingertips that tingle. “Though nothing on his medical record indicates an aversion to it – nor does he have a family history – his reaction to our anesthetic has been reminiscent of some other allergic patients.”

“What the hell did you guys give him?” Sally hisses, voice venomous.

“That’s classified information,” the man replies stiffly. “Only his legal guardian has access to that.”

Jessie tugs quietly at the older girl’s blouse as Sally cranes her head, searching out where Mrs. Thompson is speaking in quiet tones in the room where Flash lies. “We can ask her when she comes back,” Jessie offers, staring up at the other girl, red-faced.

Sally glances down and then sighs in exasperation, fixing her dark gaze on the doctor. “Fine,” she grunts, swinging on her foot take a seat across the hall. Jessie follows with less fanfare, opening her mouth only to close it almost immediately. The doctor casts a terrified glance to each of them before scurrying away, clutching his papers close to him like a shield. “Dou – jerk,” Sally mutters under her breath, catching herself halfway through when she glances at Jessie.

“You can curse in front of me,” the small girl mutters, eyes pointedly directed at the ground.

Sally pauses to give the younger girl searching glance, x-raying her face with the sheer strength of her stare. Jessie blushes harder. “Wasn’t looking for your permission,” she says, a question hidden beneath the edges of a statement, “but thanks, I guess.”

Jessie nods, fingers clenching against the denim of her jacket as she sits down next to the older girl, perching on the edge of her seat and keeping her eyes riveted on a suspicious-looking stain in the carpet.

“Jessie,” Sally mutters after a few moments of silence in which neither of them dare lift a finger, “what’s wrong?”

“I’m just worried about Flash,” Jessie murmurs stiffly, spine rigid and face blank.

Sally rolls her eyes and bumps the younger girl playfully with her shoulder. “Come on, Jess,” she giggles, a knife that destroys the tension in the air. “I’ve known you since you were six. You don’t need to be shy around me.”

Jessie glances up at her and then immediately looks away, eyelashes fluttering rapidly. “Let me guess,” Sally proposes, and Jessie’s lips twitch at the edges despite herself. “Will you tell me if I guess?”

After a moment of stillness, Jessie nods. “Sweet!” Sally cheers; Jessie ducks her head, hiding the full-blown smile that threatens to erupt. “You got a boyfriend?” Jessie shakes her head. “Girlfriend?” Another shake. “Romance with someone who’s outside the gender binary?”

“…the what?” Jessie blinks.

Sally dismisses the question with a casual wave. “Somebody who isn’t a boy or a girl.” Jessie squints as she considers it and then shakes her head, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Are you being bullied?” She shakes her head hard enough to dislodge the recently arranged hairs and manages a disgruntled sigh as she tucks it back into place. “Street harassment? Sexism? Sexual harassment?”

After Jessie’s last of many rejections, Sally glances around and leans in close enough that the pair of doctors conversing down the hall won’t be able to hear them. “Jess,” she whispers, fingers coming to a gentle rest on Jessie’s forearm, squeezing comfortingly, “are you a mutant?”

“No,” she whispers, finding her voice at last. She looks up, straight into Sally’s eyes. Their gazes lock.

“The other day,” she mutters, her own hand coming to a rest on top of Sally’s, squeezing gently for her own reassurance, “this agency contacted me. Like…the FBI. But more secretive.”

“What did they want?" Sally mutters, eyes alight with the new information.

Jessie’s eyes are sad and dark and searching, and the world seems to spin to a stop as she speaks.

“To train me,” she tells Sally, voice low.

The hallway is filled with silence.

"Jessie," Sally whispers. "What are you going to do?"

Jessie swallows and leans onto her older friend's shoulder. "That's just it," she manages, voice cracked. "I don't know."

+x+

Jessie is waiting for him with a newspaper when he finally leaves the hospital.

They’d wanted to keep him a few more days – check out the weird reaction he had to the anesthetics, probably by drugging him up again and recording the results – but the stench of corpses and breakable equipment was too much for him, so he’d opted out as soon as they handed him the papers. Unfortunately, no one thought to bring him some clothes to change into, so over the bandages keeping his rib in place is the same graphic tee and jeans from when Brock had fallen on top of him. The black goo and blood have both crusted over, and he winces at the feel of it brushing against his skin.

“Eddie Brock’s in jail,” Jessie tells him, and indeed, the front page story of _The Daily Bugle_ is labeled ‘HERO TO ZERO: BROCK’S FALL FROM GRACE.’ “Everyone thinks you’re a hero for stopping him.”

“All I did was walk underneath him while he fell,” Flash snorts, skimming the story with a casual smirk.

Jessie shrugs, opening the car door for him and bowing; he gently shoves her shoulder and laughs at her pout. “ _The Bugle_ will find basically anyone to call a hero if it means they don’t have to compliment Spider-Man,” she points out, sliding into the passenger’s seat as he starts up the ignition.

He’s pretty sure one of the doctor’s instructions was “not allowed to drive for at least a week.”

Oh well.

“I assume I’m getting a homecoming party,” he hums as he backs out of the parking space, glancing next to him to see his parents practically glowing in the front seats of their own car, still dawdling here from when they dropped his car off almost half an hour ago. His father – old, working on the force makes him older than he is, wrinkles outlining every feature except his smile – leans across and whispers something in his mother’s ear; she giggles like a schoolgirl, sunshine radiating from her eyes.

He tears his gaze away and tries not to think of it as a cycle.

“Actually,” Jessie says, jerking his attention back to driving, “Sally and I tried to make you a cake.”

“Tried?”

Her face flushes pink. “The result was…not cake.”

He grins, adjusting a mirror casually before he pulls up to the main road, clicking his turn signal and desperately ignoring the honeymooning in the car behind them. “So you picked one up from Wal Mart.”

“Miles put the birthday balloon stickers on,” she defends.

He glances over at her. “Oh, so you’re still seeing this Miles kid, then?”

Her whole body jerks, like a marionette with a string too flimsy. The sight is just a smidge too far on the side of hysterical for him. “Am I gonna meet him?” he finally asks after he’s finished choking on his own laughter and has received a few shouted curses from a trucker trying to pass him in the lane. She purposefully refuses to look at him, gaze locked on a tree out the window.

“No,” she says after a deliberate beat of silence. “He went on a trip with his dad. You’d like him a lot, though.”

“Yeah, sure,” Flash snorts. Jessie gives him a look out the corner of her eye. He glances at her, biting the inside of his cheek in thought. “Just…be careful, okay?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m going into _high school_ next year, Flash, I think I can take care of myself. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

He looks over at her, hands tapping on his steering wheel to the beat of some god-awful Miley Cyrus song. The air smells like hospital beds and cigarette burns, and she feels out of place, a single beat off the tune the rest of the car thrums to, a bleep that’s just barely too far off the radar.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you are.”

So is he.

But it doesn’t matter.

+x+

Flash is licking blue icing off his fingers, waving good-bye to a retreating Sally and shouting at Jessie to be home by 7:00 from the arcade, when he starts to feel strange.

He passes it off as the aftereffects of the drugs and the concussion and sets to work putting the remnants of cake in some sort of container, tucking the Tupperware into the back of a cabinet, carefully rearranging the plastic cups to make room. Somehow he ends up on the living room couch, straight-backed, hands clenched against his jeans.

Something is wrong.

Something is running through his veins that isn’t supposed to be there.

If he looks hard enough at his wrist, he can feel something rushing through him, can almost see the darkness spreading –

The doorbell rings and he jumps, somehow accidentally doing a backflip over the couch, which. Uh. He'd rather not think about it.

He stumbles to the door and opens it, expecting Sally to have forgotten her cell phone or something equally stupid. Instead, Mark Raxton nervously wrings his hands, eyes darting everywhere but Flash’s face. “Braxton,” Flash blinks, mouth suddenly dry.

“Raxton,” Mark corrects, instinctual more than annoyed. “I, uh, came to see if you were okay. The last time we talked you kind of…” His hands gesture wildly in what Flash assumes means ‘had a supervillain fall on you from five stories up.’

“Thanks, man,” Flash mutters, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “You, uh. You wanna come in? We’ve got some cake. If you want it.” That’s what you do with visitors, right? Offer them food and drink?

It must be, because Mark steps in through the small opening Flash allows him and fiddles with the zipper of his Iron Man jacket, watching Flash push the door closed with the edge of his foot and stumbling after him into the kitchen. “So what’s the official diagnosis?” Mark asks, settling cautiously into the wooden chair at the kitchen table as though afraid it’ll fall apart at his touch. His hair has been gelled down since the last time they met. It looks nice.

“Cracked rib,” he reports, instinctively letting the palm that isn’t rooting through the cupboard rest on his chest, tracing the outlines of the bandages through his shirts. “Concussion. Nothing major.” Is that why he’s feeling dizzy? His concussion?

“That’s good,” Mark breathes, and it’s too much, somehow, the twinge in his voice annoying rather than comforting. “I’m, uh…I’m sorry. For picking a fight.”

“No big, I was asking for it.” He has to force the words out; his tongue tastes like moth balls and dust all of a sudden, and he manages a pained smile before setting down a small plate with a piece of blue-splattered chocolate cake before his guest. Mark attacks it like he’s spent the last week starving, and Flash takes the moment to lean against the wall and breathe, trying to clear his head of the pain.

“Nah, man, it was my fault.” Flash wants to groan, wants to throw this kid off a bridge, he _has a concussion god dammit he shouldn’t have to listen to this much noise_. Raxton doesn’t notice, too busy cherishing the texture of cake as he swallows down too much at once. “So, uh. My bad.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He resists the urge to grit his teeth. “You want something to drink?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.” Of course he does.

_Asshole._

He slams the glass of milk down so hard some of it sloshes over the side, and Mark glances between it and Flash with a furrowed brow that Flash really wants to punch. “Dude,” Mar says, and his voice is faint beneath the rushing in Flash’s ears and his trembling hands that clench in the crinkling wallpaper. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m just freakin’ peachy,” Flash spits out, and his heartbeat is so fast he can hear it, can feel the blood rushing through him as his body thrums with the weight of being alive; if he wants, he knows he can reach out and snap Raxton’s neck, can see himself doing it – can wait and then get the rest of his family when they get home, might be able to get Sally too if he’s lucky –

He collapses on the tiled floor and trembles, head pounding.

“Flash!” Raxton yelps, but Flash scurries away from him because he wants to hurt, needs it, something’s wrong – 

His hand hurts –

There’s a mean scar across his palm where something sharp on the pavement slashed it back when Brock fell on him, bright red and angry, and from it is leaking some sort of horrible pus, but it’s black, it’s –

Oh god –

The last thing he sees is Mark Raxton’s face.

Then everything goes black.

+x+

He wakes up in his room, buck ass naked.

His alarm clock has been crushed almost in half, but it valiantly continues its everyday life, stubbornly beeping 6:00 PM as though unaware of the dangerous sparks it emits. Stuffing is littered throughout the room, remnants of the shredded pillow that his face is buried in, the pillowcase itself discarded on the closet door, ripped in two. Dark brown scratch marks rip through the otherwise consistent black paint on his walls; though his Billy Joel poster is beyond repair, the Spiderman logo he’d spray painted above his bed to piss off his mom remains untouched. All of the drawers in his wardrobe have been opened, clothes spilling out. His closet hangers have all been bent beyond recognition.

It’s even more of a mess than he usually keeps it. He spends a full minute just staring at the catastrophe that surrounds him, blinking once, twice, three times, as though the disaster will suddenly disappear when he opens his eyes again.

It doesn’t, though, and finally he summons the energy to roll over and shove himself off his bed, nearly falling down when his feet hit the ground. His calves haven’t been this sore since basketball conditioning in freshman year. Slowly – painfully – he drags himself over to his clothes, throwing on a Midtown Science High hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, releasing a relieved sigh when he sees his shoes unscathed by whatever monster had chosen tonight to wreck his place.

He winces again as he moves towards the door, rolling his shoulders, grunting as his joints creak against one another. Tossing the boxer shorts that hang off the doorknob into some dark corner of the room (those, at least, had been there for a few days), he reaches out to open the door.

Something clicks.

He’s locked in his room.

“Jessie?” he calls tentatively, leaning against the door in a half-assed effort shove it open. He hurts so much he doubts he could move it even if it were unlocked. When he was a kid, having the lock outside the door had been a safety measure from his parents, but it’s only gotten annoying as he’s grown older. Now it’s downright life threatening. “Mom? Dad?”

There’s the sound of feet against the carpet outside his room, and then Raxton is shouting through the door, “Dude, you decent?”

“Yeah,” he calls back. “Man, why does my room look like the Manhattan Project?”

There’s a brief pause as the door unlocks and then Mark Raxton throws it open, breathless. His clothes are askew and across his cheek, dripping blood, is a claw mark.

“What the hell happened to you?” Flash asks, rubbing his hands together for friction.

Mark sighs. “You did,” he mutters, shifting his weight awkwardly between feet. “You’re a hell of a lot stronger than you look, Thompson. Had to lock you in here to keep you from murdering me.” He laughs nervously, then winces, eyes tight with something secret.

Flash blinks. “Raxton,” he says, keeping his voice slow, “what the hell do you mean, me? I don’t remember that?”

“Amnesia, huh?” Raxton mutters, blinking up and taking a jerky step back when Flash reaches out to motion at him. “Might be a side effect.”

“Raxton, what – “

“You said,” Raxton interrupts, voice quavering, an octave higher than usual, “you said you had a – concussion. And a fractured rib. You said that was all you got.”

“It was.” Flash puts his hands up in surrender, watching as Mark’s expression turns hysterical with something. Christ, what did Flash do to this kid? “Why, what do you think happened to me?”

Mark stares him down. “I think something happened with your blood,” he manages finally, and Flash blinks.

“Uh – okay.” Weird, but whatever, he can deal with it. “What makes you think that?”

Mark’s voice is stronger all of a sudden, certain of itself.

“Because three hours ago, you turned into a giant black monster.”

Flash’s blood runs cold. Images flash through his brain – scratching Mark’s face, Mark locking him into the room, ripping through things, have to get out have to _hurt_ – but he shakes them off, the frame of his body shuddering as he tries to focus on Mark. “I didn’t,” he defends helplessly, “I don’t –“

“Something happened, Flash,” Mark asserts again, more for himself than for Flash, but there’s no real way to guarantee that. “Something with Eddie Brock.”

He can feel it, if he concentrates. The blood rushing through his veins. He takes a breath, long and deep.

“Flash,” Mark says, and his voice is scared once more, “I think you might be Venom.”

Flash does the only logical thing.

He punches Mark in his stupid face.

Then he collapses on the carpet, leans against the wall, and lets the world orbit around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEEEEEEEEEEEY  
> this chapter feels hella choppy which i think is a result of trying to write it like a movie, since having lots of short scenes seems to translate better into visual media. still p happy tho. jessie gets a lot more character in this story than the comics gave her, and im keeping my fingers crossed that she isnt, like, universally hated by the people who read this.  
> also, fixed some of the tags (how did i forget to add patrick mulligan past me clearly did not have her shit together), finalized my plans w/ valkyrie, and inevitably decided to keep it tagged in the marvel movies category. im probs wrong. sorry guys.  
> after a lot of planning, ive come to the realization that thisll probs be part of a series, so uh. woops.  
> thank you for the people whove given feedback so far! please continue to do so! it seriously lights up my light. its actually kind of embarassing.


	3. Flash flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LIZ ALLAN is portrayed by NAYA RIVERA.  
> PATRICK MULLIGAN is portrayed by TOPHER GRACE.

Flash shows up at Mark’s house sweaty and carrying cake.

Mark hasn’t bothered to change out of his pajamas when he answers the door, even though the sun in the sky is shouting high noon through the windows; groggily, he rubs his unhurt eye with the base of his palm. “Thompson?” he mutters, squinting at the shifty figure on his doorstep. “The hell are you doing here? And why are you all…” He motions awkwardly to Flash’s body. “Sweaty and shit?”

“Just finished a basketball game,” Flash breathes, voice rough from strain. His limbs feel awkward and gangly, but his body buzzes with adrenaline, as though he’s only just come alive after 18 years as a corpse.

“Basketball’s a winter sport.”

“Activity center. I stopped off there for a pickup game after going to the grocery store, for, uh.” He coughs awkwardly, watching as Mark’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “Well, I got you a cake.”

Mark blinks. He blindly reaches out to grasp the package that Flash holds; when he finally gets a good grip he tugs it out of Flash’s hands, silently acknowledging the disgusting neon icing before he focuses on the Post-It note atop the transparent casing and the words scrawled across it in blue sharpie. “‘Sorry for fucking up your face’,” he reads aloud, glancing up to see Flash tentatively gauging his reaction. “You bought me a _cake_?”

“I was gonna make you one, but. We only have so much cake mix.” Flash shrugs, hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts. He looks out of place against the backdrop – a piece of smog and skyscraper cut and pasted into picket fences and green lawns. His eyes dart between Mark’s face and his shoes, his mouth awkward and dry until he sucks his lower lip into his mouth.

After a moment of tense silence, Mark finally sighs and gestures Flash inside. “Well, come in, then,” he grumbles, and Flash grins like he’s been handed the world and follows Mark inside with a skip in his step.

+x+

“So,” Flash manages about ten minutes later through a mouthful of orange cake, “you think I’m Venom, huh?”

“I know you are,” Mark mutters, pushing his own piece around his plate with the prongs of his fork; he’s changed clothes since first greeting Flash, instead clad in faded jeans and a grey shirt from the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. Compared to him, Flash’s Cristiano Ronaldo jersey and cotton shorts look almost fancy. “I watched you turn into it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Flash snorts, shoveling another bite into his mouth; Mark watches in mild fascination as he swallows without chewing once. “Then how?”

“When Eddie Brock fell on you,” Mark begins, maybe a little too fast, but god dammit this thing almost ripped his face in half, he’s allowed to be a little interested, “it’s possible that you cut yourself and some of the…whatever-Venom-is got into your blood stream. Or, I mean, Brock only needed surface contact to bond with it, so it’s possible that it just bonded with you when he fell.”

Flash twirls his fork in his hand, thoughtfully chewing through a particularly tough patch of icing. “I would’ve known about it before now, then, wouldn’t I?” he points out, sitting back in the hard-backed wooden chair. “’Cause Brock had it for, like, half a day before he starting Hulking out in the middle of Queens.”

“That’s what I thought, too. So probably it’s mixed with your blood. The only way to know for sure, though, would be to test it in a lab and compare it to actual samples of Venom.” He pauses, eyes gleaming of something that has Flash leaning back even further. “I actually have some supplies to take your blood right here, actually, if you’re really interested.”

Flash blinks. “That sounds...painful. Do I have to?”

“Of course not,” Mark hums, taking a big bite out of the cake. “It’s entirely your choice. If you want to live the rest of your life wondering whether or not there’s a monster in your blood, you go on ahead.”

“Uh,” Flash begins, because there’s no good way to respond to that, “how are we gonna get a sample of Venom?”

“One step at a time,” Mark reassures, pushing back his chair as he stands. “Does that mean you’re gonna let me take a blood sample, or what?”

Which is how Flash ends up perched on the end of Mark’s bed (galaxy bedspread – nice), warily eyeing a needle and a petri dish. “Is that sterilized?” he hisses, leaning away from the sharp metallic tip. “How are you gonna know if you’re getting my blood vessel, anyway? What if you suck out part of my muscle or something?”

“Relax, I’ve done this before,” he murmurs, which if anything freaks Flash out _more_. “My sister’s majoring in nursing next year. I literally know ten times more about the human body than I ever wanted to.” There’s a short pause where Mark critically examines the petri dish, squinting through one of the corners. “And yes. It’s sterilized. What do you think I am, some sort of barbarian?”

“You have a sister?” Flash replies at the same time a female voice calls “ _Mark_!” from down the hall.

Mark winces, sucking a breath through his teeth. “Half-sister,” he corrects, then shouts down the hallway, “I’m busy!”

“Why is there cake in the kitchen?!”

“My friend brought it over!”

Distantly, Flash can hear the sound of shoes thumping on the carpet; Mark frantically stows his supplies into a box that he shoves beneath his bed, rearranging himself in his seat just in time to look casual when the door opens. “I didn’t know you were having somebody over,” the girl says as she steps through the door. She’s beautiful – dark skin made of sharp angles, cheekbones and dark eyes accentuated by her careful makeup. “Can I meet – “ She cuts off abruptly when she catches Flash’s gaze, eyes widening because.

Mark’s sister. Is.

“Liz?” he demands, and _oh shit_ he is in for it now.

“ _Flash_?” Liz Allan blinks, and if there’s any moment where Flash would want a seismic wave to crack the world open so he can fall to his death, it’d be right about now. Her face has narrowed since the last time they met, and he can’t help but wonder if others things are different – whether the curves of her body have rounded out or sharpened, whether the noises she makes are the same, full sighs and whispered names and the only curses he’s ever heard her say. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh,” he begins and then stutters to a stop. “I’m, uh…getting science help. From Mark. For college next year.”

She blinks. “You’re going to…? I thought – the army – “

“My parents – “

“Oh, I get that,” she snorts, and his shoulders sag, but he can’t keep his eyes from trailing down her jawline.

“Yeah, is that why – nursing school?”

“How did you - ?”

“Mark mentioned – “

“Oh. Mmm. My stepmom, yeah,” she mutters, and she’s definitely checking him out too. “Don’t know how I’ll make it through. I can barely remember to tie my own shoes, how ‘m I gonna save lives?” She laughs, nervous, fingers rapping against her bare knee beneath the edges of her denim shorts.

“You’ll be fine,” Flash reassures, voice soft. She always is.

Mark clears his throat awkwardly, and wow, Flash totally forgot he was even there, how crazy is that. Apparently Liz had been caught in the same spell because she stiffens at the sound of her brother’s voice. “Yeah, so,” she begins, coughing to force the roughness from her throat, “I’m going to the mall with MJ. You want anything while I’m out?”

“Grab some Dr. Pepper,” he recites immediately, gaze darting between Flash and Liz once every couple of seconds. “We’re almost out. I’ll pay you back later.”

“Got it,” Liz reports, tossing him a thumbs up before letting her gaze fall on Flash, eyes tightening imperceptibly. “See ya, Flash,” she murmurs before whirling out of the room.

The moment they hear the front door close, Mark turns on him.

“What the _hell_ was that about?” Mark demands, the muscles in his neck tight, lips pursed and arms crossed. Flash winces, scratching awkwardly at the back of his ear. “Don’t look at me like that! How do you know Liz?”

Flash exhales harshly, one long gust of air from the very depths of his lungs. “There’s no good way to say this,” he confesses, grimacing as Mark squints at him, leaning forward. “I kind of had sex with your sister.”

There’s a moment of stillness while Mark processes this information before he scrambles back, shrieking “Ew, ew, _ew_!” He topples off the edge of the desk chair that he’d perched on, hitting the carpet calves first and scrambling away. Flash takes a moment to be thankful that the needle is safely tucked under the bed and not anywhere that Mark could easily access it and stab Flash. Small favors and all that.

He leans over the edge of the bed, eyebrows crinkling in concern, and is met with Mark staring up at him with wide brown eyes. “In my defense,” Flash says because he’s a huge douchebag, “she’s pretty hot.”

Mark manages a strangled noise before crabwalking over to the nearest chair, face scrunched up, limbs knotted together in an unfixable pretzel. “Never, _ever_ say that to me again,” he stresses, shoving himself up; he teeters for a moment and Flash wonders if he’s about to faint, but he manages to right himself between his profuse gagging noises. “Jesus. You and – _Jesus_.”

“That’s what she said, too,” Flash mutters, and Mark chokes on another strangled groan. “Hey,” the blonde adds, “I don’t want to rush you or anything, but, uh.” He gestures to the space on his shoulder marked down earlier as the perfect spot. “Potential terrifying monster in my bloodstream. Good time to prioritize.”

“I need background noise,” Mark grumbles. Flash tosses him a remote control and he takes a moment to turn on the miniature TV across from his bed, flicking through the channels, finally settling on a news station discussing the recently deceased Norman Osborn and speculating about his illness. It sounds more like a gossip rag than anything else, and Flash admits to being a little bit grateful for the distraction when Mark pulls out the needle again and starts to rub it with a towel.

“Well,” he says, voice still shaky with disgust, “let’s get started.”

+x+

His name is Max Dillon.

+x+

“ – destruction in Times Square,” the woman on the screen reports as Flash winces, pressing down on his newly-bandaged shoulder. Mark carefully seals the sticky blood away in a petri dish, taping the edges of it for good measure before setting it down on the edge of his desk, clearing a small space around it. “A man has apparently accessed the city’s main power source – “

“Dude, check this out,” Flash calls. Mark’s back goes rigid, hands falling to his side as he cranes his neck over his shoulder; in the center of the screen is a man whose skin throbs bright blue, eyes alight with some sort of electricity as he roars. “He’s, like…made of electricity or something. How crazy is that?”

“Well, New York’s favorite superhero runs around in red tights, so it could be much worse.” They both watch as the camera zooms out, illuminating the scene before them – a crowd gathered around the blue man and a figure that is clearly Spider-Man, dueling it out in the middle of the city. “Who’s that chick running straight at them?” Mark asks after a long moment of watching the crowd of people tidal waving across the screen.

“Where’s that?” Flash mutters, eyes riveted on Spidey’s mask. Mark points at the bottom corner, where a flicker of blonde ponytail trails across his line of sight.

“Seems kind of stupid,” Mark mutters. “Shouldn’t she be trying to get away?”

Flash is standing up without realizing it. His calves shake so hard they rattle the bed, nails digging into his palm.

“That’s Jessie,” he says, and the world around him goes silent.

Then Mark whispers “Oh my god” and Flash breaks for the door.

+x+

The subway’s down – of course it is, the Blue Man Group reject fucked up the power grid, god he’s an idiot – so he ends up huffing at Sally over the phone while he runs, shoes slapping against the pavement cracks as he skids around corners. “And of course – she doesn’t have her – _goddamn phone_ on – “ he gasps out, narrowly avoiding a pole as he dives through the streets. “How close are you?”

“I’m almost where the fighting is,” Sally manages, only slightly less strained than Flash’s. “Or – was, now. Everybody’s cleared out. Think she headed back to your apartment?”

“Nobody answered the home phone,” Flash hisses, wincing when he stubs his toe against a sewer drain, cussing under his breath. “Try calling her again. If we don’t find her, I’ll meet you in front of Stark Tower. Be careful, okay?”

“You too,” she says, soft, and he hangs up just in time to trip over a shrub, skidding across gravel.

Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. He shoves up, continuing his mad dash towards the center of the city, because it doesn’t matter, not really, not the sting of his palms or the definite slide of blood on his knee. Doesn’t matter.

He senses Jessie before he sees her, and that is terrifying.

She’s still almost a mile away – he groans at the thought – but he can see her anyway, watches as her hair flaps behind her, pulled out of its ponytail and left wild in the wind. She’s hurt. He doesn’t know how badly, doesn’t know where, but he knows she is – and he can feel Sally, too, closer to Jessie than he is, still dressed in sweatpants from her Netflix marathon, arm swinging out, Jessie lashing out in instinctive surprise. He slows his run to a walk, clutching his stomach, gasping through the stitch in his side. He can see them speak to each other in low tones, can see Sally pull out a phone.

On cue, his cell chimes out some ACDC. He allows his steps to stop completely, opening his phone instinctively. “You found her,” he breathes, leaning against a nearby wall to catch his breath.

He can see her blink from across the world. “How’d you know?”

 _Shit._ “You wouldn’t be calling otherwise,” he mutters, stuffing his hand in his pocket and mentally patting himself on the back for his ad libbed explanation. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She says she was walking home from a friend’s house and got caught up in the crowd. Apparently she dropped something and had to run back to get it. That’s what you saw on the screen.”

His bones fall like dominoes; his knees buckle as he slides to the ground, face damp with sweat and blood from where he fell only a minute or two ago. His eyes shut, breath leaving him in a gust. “Thank God,” he whispers.

“I know,” Sally hums, and Flash manages a tired smile at the relief her voice shares with his. “We’re next to that Italian diner the Watanabes run. How far are you?”

“’Bout a mile. Are the subways working again? I can just meet up with you guys back at the apartment.”

They trade ideas back and forth until Flash finally hangs up, headed in the direction where he knows Sally and Jessie are, though his view of them has faded in clarity. It’s only when he’s tucking his phone back into his pocket that he realizes there’s still blood smeared across his knee from his fall earlier. Sighing to no one, he tracks down the nearest vending machine, uncapping a bottle and pouring enough mineral water on his leg to wash the cut.

But there’s no sting of water against open flesh. He rubs against his knee with the base of his palm, just in case, but when his hand comes away, his skin is still as smooth as ever.

He knows a cut was there. He felt it. He _bled_ from it.

Shakily, he pulls out his cell phone and enters the number listed as _Raxton_ from where Mark had typed it for him as he dashed madly out the door.

“Mark? Hey man.” His breath comes shaky, short. Not quite hyperventilating. “I think we may need to speed up on that blood sample.”

+x+

When they make it to the police station the next day, Gwen Stacy is filing papers behind the counter.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Flash greets, leaning against the spotless wood, and she jolts so hard that the entire file drops to the table. He doesn’t miss the annoyed glance Mark sends his way. Whatever. Raxton can deal.

“Flash!” Gwen greets, beaming up at him, and he hadn’t realized it before but he hasn’t seen Gwen since graduation and wow, he actually kind of missed her. “What are you doing here? And, uh, who’s your…friend?”

Mark’s lips curl back far enough to expose his teeth in a grim smile, hand extending as an offer rather than a demand. “Mark Raxton. I’m in the year below you in school?”

Gwen’s eyes practically light up. “Oh, your Liz’s little brother, right?” she chirps; her blonde hair is pulled into a tight ponytail and it bounces when she stands, grasping Mark’s hand and shaking it, firm. Flash doesn’t miss the Look she sends in his direction. “I used to tutor her, back when we did group tutoring instead of individual. Isn’t she headed to Empire State next year?”

“Yeah, she’s majoring in nursing,” Mark agrees amicably, smile falling almost imperceptibly at Liz’s name. “She wants to learn how to fix the mutation problem.”

Flash’s back goes rigid despite himself; he can see Gwen’s impermanent grin falter from across the table – because that’s it, isn’t it, that’s why Flash and Liz could never have worked out, that’s why Mark is so desperate to find a non-mutation answer to Flash’s little black problem. Because Raxton, Allan, all one family – and all so permanently, horribly mutantphobic.

“So, Gwen, what are you doing here?” Flash interrupts smoothly, because he’s afraid if he doesn’t the blackness he can feel coursing through his veins is going to reach out and fuck Raxton’s face up even more. “I thought you and Parker were going on a trip or something?”

Gwen’s eyes blaze red. “Peter and I broke up,” she says, voice robotic as she returns to filing papers.

Flash blinks. “ _Again_?” he demands.

“I dumped him this time,” she says crisply, and Flash lets out a low whistle, once again ignoring the scandalized look Mark sends at him. It’s almost like a game at this point. “I got sick of constantly being dumped and then getting back together.”

“Good on you. You deserve better,” Flash hums, and he could swear amusement flares up in her eyes. Now if only she’d figured this out a year ago, back when the Lizard fiasco was still fresh, and saved the entire senior class a year of front row soap opera seats. “This have anything to do with you applying for the Oxford scholarship?”

She glances up. “How did you know about that?”

“My little sister’s got a friend who’s applying for it too.” That Miles kid is a goddamn genius, Flash is pretty sure – the kid’s only 13. “So does it have anything to do with Parker, or…?”

“No, it was my decision.” She shakes her head, her lips quirking in the Stacy Smile™ that could make a murderer want to adopt a puppy. “But back on subject, Stanley Carter became the acting police chief after my Dad died last year, and now that he’s been caught as Sin Eater there’s a lot of red tape to wade through, so I’m just helping out.”

“Oh, right.” Stanley Carter – Flash almost forgot about him. Almost.

“So,” Gwen begins, “what are _you_ here for?”

“Um,” Mark begins from his position next to Flash, which is about when Flash’s father walks through the door.

Flash’s entire body goes rigid, knees and elbows both locking as he averts his eyes to a coffee stain in the carpet. Harrison Thompson has yet to notice him, caught up in a conversation with a crisp younger officer, but it’s only a moment before the man’s steps halt, feet faltering. “Eugene,” he blinks, gaze stuttering in surprise.

“Officer Thompson,” Gwen greets, standing, but Harrison holds up his hand in her direction, shaking his head with a smile, and she sits back down.

“Go back to what you were doing, Ms. Stacy, there’s no trouble,” he reassures in his patented officer voice before his eyes return to his son. “Eugene, what are you doing here?”

Flash swallows, ignoring two pairs of teenage eyes boring into his skull. “We’re here to check into the status of the, uh, of Eddie Brock’s blood tests.” The tremor he’s forcing out of his voice is all directed towards his hands, fingers shaking against his legs as he resists the urge to tap a rhythm against the countertop. “We wanted to know if they found any information on whatever was causing him to become Venom.”

Harrison is only a foot away from him now, and it’s like they’re the only two people in the room, just a fist and a child duking it out in the ring. “What do you need that for? Shouldn’t you be messing around with other kids your age?” he demands, voice no stricter than any other father would be with his child, his temporary sobriety a godsend and a confidence shaker, because he’s not drunk but Flash still treats him like an animal, because _look at me, you useless sack of shit,_ because it’s Flash’s fault because it’s Flash who fucks up it’s Flash who’s fucking up right now _does he want you to look at him or not does it matter either way?_

“Science project,” Flash chokes out, voice still strong, hands clenched tight to hide the shaking. “Mark’s gonna be a senior next year, and he needs to do a project on a body system for physiology, and he wanted to do a comparison between Brock’s blood tests and a normal person’s blood test, because of the, uh, Venom in his system.” He’s gonna get bruised for that stutter later.

“And why are _you_ here?” Harrison demands, voice steely, dark eyes hard and unforgiving against the pale of his skin. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for college?”

“I’m moral support,” Flash offers, voice loud and lonely and too small all at once.

Harrison stares for a moment before he’s engulfed in a full-body laugh; when it finally ceases, he claps Raxton on the shoulder, Mark’s knees buckling under the weight. “Hope my boy isn’t causing you any trouble,” Harrison hums, and Mark startles, glancing between Flash and his father with eyes that get wider by the moment. Harrison nods to the lax officer behind him. “Officer Mulligan, please give these boys anything we’re legally allowed to release. Don’t want to get called for obstructing education.”

“Yessir,” Officer Mulligan nods, and Flash’s father leaves them all standing there, the door snapping shut behind him. Mulligan is clearly new to the force, in his 30’s at the latest, with dark hair that seems to fan out in all directions and an easy smirk. “If you boys’ll follow me, I can lead you to the records. How you doing, Gwen?”

“I’m good, Pat, thanks for asking,” she concedes, eyes still following the hairs on the back of Flash’s neck. Officer Mulligan nods his assent and turns towards the boys, jerking his head to get them to follow him as he swings to a hallway.

After a good two minutes of silence, Raxton mutters, “Your real name is _Eugene_?” and it’s like all the blackness in Flash’s blood that had cowered away while his Dad spoke with him pours out of him at once, veins thrumming with darkness that he struggles to keep at bay, because a police station is probably the worst place he could possibly choose to transform into a giant monster in.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” he settles on snarling instead, his skin too tight all of a sudden as slowly, carefully, they move towards Flash’s only saving grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END NOTES ARE DOING THAT THING WHERE THEY ALL STACK UP O EACH OTHER AT THE VERY LAST CHAPTER FRIENDS PLEASE STOP  
> on a more related note: according to the official Daily Bugle tumblr, which documents an interview with gwen a year after her father's death, there has to have been at least a year between tasm and tasm2. im convinced by gwen and peters interactions (specifically the line "this time, i'm breaking up with you") they spent that whole year being That One Couple that breaks up and gets back together like twice a week.  
> also gonna be totally real here, mark and flash are def crushing on each other. bisexual flash thompson FTW


End file.
